


Ron and the Snatchers

by hillnerd



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 05:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18277079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillnerd/pseuds/hillnerd
Summary: An account of Ron’s solo run-in with the Snatchers in Deathly Hallows.Very Dark!Fic. Big thanks for my amazing betadiva-gonzoTrigger warnings:self loathing, painful physical assault, torture, whipping, assault, unwanted sexual touching, graphic threats of r***





	Ron and the Snatchers

**Author's Note:**

> Well, a while back I was speculating about the snatchers, and how Ron was gone for 12 hours or so after he left Harry and Hermione. According to Ron he wanted to get back to them immediately. He describes the confrontation with the Snatchers as no big deal- but if so, where was he for all that missing time? What would keep Ron ‘stand on a broken leg’ Weasley missing for all that time?
> 
> I asked because I was writing him telling Hermione what happened in that Romione Australia fic I keep meaning to edit and post- but then I just sat down and wrote it all. This is dark. Very dark.

 “Ron! Ron!” Hermione called after him, rain pounding around them.

 _‘I need to think! I need to be by myself for just a moment!’_ Ron thought as he apparated.

The seething hot anger that had roiled inside him faded within seconds.

For the first time in his life he apparated without leaving any bits of him behind. Well, physically. He realized in horror he’d left his heart and soul behind. He’d left Harry. He’d left Hermione screaming his name as she chased him through the rain. He swore he could almost hear her, still.

“Oh fuck, what have I done?” he moaned to himself, and his wheezes from running turned into a scattering of sobs. His skin prickled and his very insides began to feel cold.

It took a moment to orient himself in the mist and stifle his sobs, but he was in Ottery St Catchpole. He was next to a familiar old stump he’d used as his secret sanctuary so many times. There was a little bunch of reeds next to the big hollowed stump he had hidden in as a child, long before he had his own room. He’d run away to this hiding spot in the village quite a few times.

The cold began to tear at his lungs and the voice he’d heard with the Locket cam back loud in his ears.

_You’re worthless._

The sensation of choking to death closed in on him. The helplessness of never breathing again he’d felt when he’d been poisoned cloyed at him. Brain’s tentacles choked him. He hadn’t thought of that in ages, but the hopelessness was filling him up, almost as unnaturally as the cold around him. Wait, unnatural cold?

Ron snapped his eyes up and two eyeless dementors were not meters away from him, their scabbed hands reaching towards him as their tattered robes whipped about.

He thought of Hermione and cast the charm “ _Expecto Patronum_!” and his Jack Russell Terrier burst forth, tenaciously chasing them away into the distance. Any relief he might have felt was immediately quashed by the sound of a shout.

“Oi! Who’s there?” cried out a small portly man down an alley. “Look! Look, ‘e looks school age!”

He wasn’t alone, and they all began to smile with excited glee at the sight of Ron. They didn’t wait to find out his age before immediately bombarding him with spells. Ron threw himself to the muddy ground, and rolled behind the stump as jets of light flew from their wands.

[[MORE]]

Ron hurled a few spells, even disarming one of the several figures, but was finding it difficult to hit a target without exposing himself. He blindly cast an ‘ _Expulso_!’ around the edge of the stump, and a corresponding explosion and horrible scream let Ron know he’d met his mark. He tried again to blindly cast a spell, but a flash of orange slammed into his hand. 

A horrible scream ripped out of him as his arm broiled and scalded like it had been thrown upon a bed of coals. His wand slipped from his fingers as they twitched in blistering pain. He felt for his wand with his left hand, and saw his right was free of any signs of injury, even though he felt it burn so thoroughly he expected his skin should be charred and falling off. He tried to move his right hand to grip his wand, but hissed in pain at the slighted twitch it gave. It was now useless to him.

He had to use his other hand. Ever since his left shoulder had been splinched he’d had trouble using that arm. He couldn’t move it smoothly, or grip things as certainly as he had before, but he grit his teeth and hissed through the pain as he angled his wand around the stump again. He heard the corresponding thump of a body hitting the ground. If he could just get one more, maybe he could run for it and apparate away! Each curse he shakily cast was slower and more poorly done, and the angle was making his shoulder sting with pain. 

There was a pop of Apparition behind him, but he was unable to turn his wand in time to stop the forceful blow to the back of his head.

He woke up slowly, his head pounding and even though he wasn’t moving, the whole world seemed to tilt on him. Nausea and dizziness made his brain feel like it was swimming about his skull and hitting the sides. Rough ropes bit into his wrists, and uncomfortably tied them to his sides. He was on his side, and felt the cool earth on his cheek. He attempted moving a bit and realized there were ropes tying his legs together as well. He could hear his captors talking and didn’t want them to know he was awake. Through his lashes he could just make out their forms. A motley crew of five men stood around the body of a sixth man on the ground. The prostrate man’s face was so bloody and swollen he looked like a spoilt pumpkin.

“‘Can do a Patronus, so ‘e’s probably not a mudblood,” said the short fat one. He held Ron’s wand in his hand. “Them mudbloods couldn’t do a spell like that if they ‘ad to.”

“Fucker nearly took my bleedin’ head off!” the burly bearded one complained and there was a chorus of grunts and sighs.

“You’re all better off than my brother!” rumbled the largest one, pointing to the bloodied man on the ground.

Ron felt along the ground for something to possibly cut into his ropes, but nothing was there. All he had on him was the deluminator in his pocket, digging into his hip.

None of the men were wearing Death Eater robes, but he didn’t know any good guys who would attack someone so fiercely just for casting a Patronus and looking school age.

“You can Apparate your brother to St Mungo’s later, Crowthers,” said a thin one with a snide reedy voice. His tone showed little concern. “We’ll need to see what Galleons we can get for the ginger first.”

“Not worth whatever galleons are on his head, Smythe,” muttered the bearded man, mopping at a bloody wound on his head.

The gaunt bald one spat, and it landed just next to Ron’s head. Ron closed his eyes all the way, but it was too late. He’d been spotted.

“Oh! Look who’s waking up!” Smythe gleefully sneered at Ron, his reedy voice somehow making his delivery more grating.

Ron gave up his ruse and opened his eyes to look at them. Opening his eyes all the way made the pain behind his eyes blast forth and he struggled to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. The five of them were staring at him, all looking a bit roughed up, a few of them bleeding.

“What are you doing out here tonight?” the big one asked. He was hulking like a gorilla, and had a sloping brow to match.

“I was out on a walk,” Ron said, struggling against his restraints. “I can get back to that if you let me go.”

“And ‘ave you curse us all bloody again?” the short one snorted.

“You cursed first.”

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” the bearded one asked. They all examined him curiously.

“Graduated,” Ron grunted, looking between them all. They were not two miles from his home. If they found out he was Ron Weasley, his parents would immediately be in danger.

“How’d you cast a Patronus?” the reedy voiced man asked. More bloody questions… His head was pounding and he had little patience to hear more of them. “Where’d you learn that?”

“At school.”

“What school?”

“A school for wizards.”

“You better answer our questions better than that!”

“What do you want, an essay?” Ron bit out, head hurting. He regretted his sarcasm the moment he saw the looks on their faces.

“Think you’re funny, do you?” the big one growled. “Let’s show him what we do to funny ones!”

Sadistic smiles formed on their faces as they approached Ron. He struggled against his bonds for a moment before a hard boot was kicked into his stomach. He let out a deep gasp. He was bound in such a way he couldn’t double over much, and it was a struggle to replace the air he’d just had kicked out of him. All the air left his lungs as more and more boots and fists began to rain down upon him. 

They pummeled him, crashing into his head, chest, stomach, back, legs and bound arms. One of them gave a punch to the back of Ron’s still tender head and he saw stars in front of his eyes. He couldn’t catch breath to scream. Tears burned his eyes from the pain. Hardly any noise left him at all. He had no idea how many times they had struck him, or how long it had been since he could breath when one of them called out:

“Ok, that’s enough.” It was Crowthers, the big one whose brother still lay forgotten on the ground. The other four shuffled back and Ron took the opportunity to gasp for breath, every bit of him aching and hurting. Crowthers stooped down and grabbed Ron by the hair, forcing his face up at an odd angle.

“Think you’re real clever, huh?”

Ron groaned in response. The man smelled in every way, body odor rolling off him like the troll Ron had faced in first year. Crowthers continued to wrench Ron’s head back so far, he felt his neck might snap. His wand poked into Ron’s cheek and clacked against his teeth.

“Nothing to say, ginger?”

Ron closed his eyes and tried to exhale to keep the horrible smells of the man at bay.

“Oh, we’ll soon have you screaming or apologizing before long,” he growled, suddenly dragging Ron to the stump. He threw Ron onto it chest first, his bound legs scrambling for balance, his throbbing head so dizzy that the task was made doubly hard. Crowthers painfully lodged a hobnailed boot onto Ron’s back, crushing the air out of him. Ron struggled for breath, and his ribs ached, feeling like they might splinter as the weight of Crowthers increased.

“Apologize for cursing us.”

Ron was scared out of his mind, but he wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t give them the satisfaction. Ron determinedly looked ahead.

“Fine, screams it is,” the man growled, conjuring some more ropes to tie Ron in place to the stump. “Smythe, make him scream.”

Ron couldn’t move, except for his pulsing head. He stiffly turned his neck and saw Smythe, the thin reedy voiced man, step forward. A horrible satisfied grin cutting across his thin face.

“ _Verbero_!” he cried out, and with a flourish of his wand a sharp skin splitting pain lashed across Ron’s back. The spell had hit him like a bullwhip, even through his clothes, and a bloody gash was flogged across his skin. Smyth whipped his wand through the air again and again. With every slash of the wand came another stinging pain through Ron’s back. The pain was becoming unbearable, his whole back aflame. Ron grit his teeth and dug his cheek into the splinters of the stump, putting every fiber of concentration into not making a sound. Then it finally stopped. Ron was in so much pain he couldn’t even sigh in relief. All he could do was bite his lip and shake.

“You should do that Calefacio again!” The short one gleefully shouted. “I think you got ‘im with that when we were dueling ‘im.”

“ _Calefacio_!” Smythe intoned. The agonizing sensation of fire ripped through his nerves, wrenching a throat tearing scream from him. The very skin was being flayed from his legs by a raging inferno. His bones were being burnt to ash. Or at least it felt that way. It was the same spell from earlier. It didn’t do any physical damage this time either, but the sensation his limbs were being burned off continued to painfully flare, even as the spell slowly faded in intensity.  He was awash in torment. 

His legs gave out on him completely, and were it not for the ropes holding his body to the stump Ron would have collapsed to the ground. The stump had once been a safe haven for him. It was now a dais of torture. 

The men laughed in triumph, and Ron fought to keep his whimpers quiet as the spell continued to burn down his legs. 

Crowthers stepped out from the group, and hulked over to Ron. He sat himself on the wide stump, and a large hand patted Ron on his injured back. Ron gave a hiss in pain.

“Aw, shhh, poor little boy on a holiday from school,” he said, rubbing Ron’s shirt into his covered injuries with painful accuracy.

“M’not f-from school!” Ron blurrily insisted through gritted teeth.

“You know what?” Crowthers whispered so low no one but Ron could hear. “Maybe I ought to give you a good rutting in the arse, see if we can fuck the truth out of you?”

Cold dread froze Ron’s throat. He could barely think to move. Crowther’s hot breath was pungent and metallic, making Ron want to gag.

“Got you to scream good and loud for me, didn’t I? Bet I can do that to you without a wand, pretty boy,” Crowthers breathed into Ron’s ear, his hand rubbing lower on Ron’s back than it had before, travelling just centimeters below the waistband of his jeans. Ron shut his eyes tight and he started to shake. Fear clenched at him as it had never before.

“Alright, we need to find out who he is,” Smyth said, still trying to suppress his giggles.

“Tell me your name, pretty,” Crowthers practically crooned at Ron. Ron searched his mind for a name, any name. His mind was horribly blank of thoughts, frozen in pain and fear. If only he could get out of there. He didn’t care how. He’d even take the Knight Bus if he had to! If only the Knight bus could be hailed without a wand… The Knight Bus!

“Stan!” Ron exclaimed, surprised at his own clarity. “I’m Stan Shunpike!”

“And what’s your blood status?”

“Pureblood!”

“Check the list,” Crowthers said before muttering a severing charm on Ron’s belt, making his jeans begin to sag. “I’m going to tear that arse up so you can’t sit down for weeks.”

Ron trembled, and willed himself not to start crying.

“Shunpike’s not on the list,” said the short one.

“And he could do a Patronus charm. What if he’s pureblood like he says?” the bearded man said, suddenly looking afraid.

“Doesn’t matter, he’s probably a truant,” said Smythe.

“He’s definitely young,” Crowthers said as he pulled Ron’s jeans a bit further down, but the ropes tying him to the dais kept them from going much lower on his hips. “I like raw meat like you, ginger.”

“But what if he’s not a truant?” The bearded man began to protest. “I don’t want no trouble for attacking someone who wasn’t on the list.”

“Then what should we do?” Smythe said, looking between them. No one was really in charge, and they all seemed equally clueless.

“I know what I want to do,” Crowthers said, fingers pressing into Ron’s hips as he lined himself up and did a few thrusts at Ron’s clothed ass. A few of the men laughed, and Ron shuddered as the man’s hardness pushed against him.

“Yeah, we all know you want to bugger him,” the bearded one growled out. “That don’t work out well for us if he’s not on the list.”

“We can always kill him,” the bald gaunt one said, speaking for the first time.

“And not get a bloody galleon after all this trouble?” Smythe scoffed.

“Still might not get a galleon either way.”

“He’s not on the list. It’s not worth it,” the bearded man said, untying Ron from the stump.

“No, we take him to the Ministry. See if he’s who he says he is,” Smythe said, grabbing hold of Ron’s wrists to pull him to his feet from behind. Ron had trouble standing, but he was finally free of the ropes. If they got him to the Ministry, it was all over for Ron and his family. He needed to finish this. He had to get out of there. It didn’t matter if he was alive or not at the end of this, as long as they couldn’t find his body and identify him as Ron Weasley. He had to think fast.

The bearded man went for Ron to free him, but Crowthers gave him a push.

“We’re not letting him go either way!”

“You want to keep him so you can bugger him like some pouf!”

“I ain’t a bloody pouf!” snarled Crowthers, his giant hand swinging at the bearded man. The two of them began to blindly punch at one another. The gaunt bald man lurched out of their way as the two of them nearly barged into him, and the short one was laughing at the sight. This was Ron’s chance.

Luck was on his side that the best dueler was currently holding Ron with little physical force. Ron braced himself, for he knew it was going to hurt like hell, but he took his left elbow and jabbed back into Smythe’s stomach as hard as he could. His back and shoulders screamed in agony from the sudden twist, but Smyth let out a breathless grunt and doubled over, giving Ron just enough slack to break free. He grabbed the wand from Smythe’s hand, pointed it at the short one, growled “Expelliarmus!” and caught his own wand.

The four all turned, gobsmacked. For a moment they and Ron all stared at one another, all equally surprised at what he had done. Crowthers was the first to move to attack him, but it was too late; Ron turned and apparated away on the spot, not caring where he went as long as he was as far away from them as possible, and could be with Hermione and Harry again.

His body twisted and turned through space and with a thud he landed on his back, the pain so great that he immediately passed out.

Ron slowly woke up, the steady burning pain stinging him to consciousness. His head still felt as foggy as his surroundings. The sun hadn’t quite risen, so there was still a tinge of dingy blue to the misty woods surrounding him. He was damp and chilled with early morning dew, and every inch of him hurt. He needed to move, but he knew the second it did it would be excruciating.

With teeth gritted he let out an agonized moan as he turned over, and put his right hand to the ground to balance himself. He gave a hiss as his fingers pressed into the ground and saw his hand was covered in blood. He didn’t remember his hand being all that injured, since it had been bound in ropes as they beat him and whipped him. He held it up and saw, to his chagrin, the same telltale missing flesh of a splinching. His middle and index finger stung, and the tops of his fingers, where fingernails has one grown, were gone, leaving nothing but raw open flesh behind. He awkwardly severed the hem of his t-shirt and wrapped it around the tips of the bloody digits, hissing as it made contact with the freshly peeled nerves 

Ron tried to picture the exact place they’d camped so he could apparate to them, but the moment his eyes closed he began to lose his balance and lurch to the side. He couldn’t apparate yet, he was too dizzy and disoriented to do it. He might splinch his head off, then what use would he be to them? His eyes began to tear, and he forced himself to gulp down a few breathes. He didn’t have time to cry. He needed to get back to Hermione and Harry.

He’d been in so much pain he hadn’t thought to take stock of just where he was located. He was in the woods, and they looked awfully similar to the ones he’d been staying in just yesterday. If he could get to the top of the hill he was on he could orient himself and know for certain. At their campsite there had been a low mountain in the far distance with a funny looking spot on its peak. The spot had sort of looked like a deflated fish. If he could see that, he could find their camp spot. He gathered the two wands, placing the extra in his sock, and began his trek.

The climb up the hill was excruciating. Every step was painful, and he had to will himself not to begin shaking and crying again as he panted and limped up the hill. The top of the hill had less and less trees, but the fog made visibility remain low. He’d have to wait for either his head to stop feeling so disoriented so he could apparate, or for the fog in his surroundings to get burned off by sunrise.

He wanted to pace, to do something, but his body wouldn’t let him. All he could do was woodenly stand, shiver, and wait.

The sun traveled higher and higher, and Ron’s head still swam.

He stared ahead at the distance, willing the outlines of the landscape to come into focus.

Finally, not so far away, he could see the mountain ahead of him in detail. It was the same mountain he’d seen as they camped!

He got out his wand and excitedly cast the “point me” spell. The mountain had been almost perfectly south of their location, making it all too easy to head north.

‘Just hold on a little bit longer!’ Ron silently plead, willing himself to hold on until he got to Harry and Hermione.

It amazed Ron how quickly the hike was sapping him of his sense and abilities. Little rocks and brambles left each step unsure, and a few times he caught himself before falling and getting a mechanical injury. The wind was cold and harsh as he pushed north. He could barely move his hands and arms, and his back and legs burned in pain as he doggedly pushed on. He could barely think or concentrate on anything other than the pain, and the thought of reaching Harry and Hermione.

Hours passed. The north wind numbed his hands and face, his head pounded with every step, but the sight of a river made his sore face split into a mad grin. His pace quickened as followed along the river, just barely avoiding roots as he excitedly forged ahead. He kept looking back to the mountain, which was looking more and more like it had the day before.

Finally he reached a bit of riverbed that had to be the same one they’d been at. The sight of Ted Tonks and Dean’s campfire, complete with fish guts from their meal prep, confirmed it.

“Harry? Hermione?” He said, cautiously wanting to avoid being loud as he walked to where the tent had been the night before.

There wasn’t a sound.

“Harry! Hermione!” He asked a bit more insistently.

He went to the patch of dirt where the tent should be, and was able to walk across it easily.

Panic coursed through his veins. They couldn’t be gone, could they? That meant he’d never be able to find them again! Where could he even hope to be able to find them? They had no plan in place for their next site.

The tears he’d held for hours began to openly flow down his face. He kicked up the dirt where the tent had been. It wasn’t there.

A horrible thought struck him. What if they were there, and they didn’t want him back at all? Were hiding from him.

“Please!” Ron cried, not caring who heard him as sobs began to rack his body. “Please, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have left for even a moment! I’m a worthless wanker, I know. Please let me come back!”

All was still. The only sign of time moving at all was the river’s steady movement, and the tree branches creaking in the wind.

“Please…” Ron croaked out, collapsing into the mud. Tears steadily fell down his long nose as he rocked back and forth. He’d done it. He’d abandoned the two most important people in the world. He’d left them. They were well and truly gone. He was all alone, and every bit as worthless and stupid as the locket had said.

Hours passed, and Ron continued to sit in the mud, unable to move. Ron’s hands were beginning to go as numb as his soul. He was shaking from cold, from grief, and from the pain he felt in every part of him.

Despite all this, his mind was beginning to clear enough to plan and think again. As soon as his brain was clear enough, he was going to Apparate to Bill’s. He’d start there for any sign of anything that might lead to Harry and Hermione’s whereabouts. He’d find his way back to them, even if they didn’t want them. He had to help them somehow, even if it was just to stand in front of a killing curse for them.

The world didn’t need a Ron Weasley. He was just a piece on the board you’d use to sacrifice for the more important pieces. He’d known that since he was kid in his first year, on a giant chess board. He had sacrificed himself for his friends, and from then on he knew that was his only real worth. He’d stand between them and any threat. The world needed heroes like Harry. It needed intelligent world-changers like Hermione. And he needed to protect them, if not for themselves and the love he had for them, then for everyone else. The world needed them.

The world didn’t need a worthless git like himself.

Mind finally focused, he stood.

With every brain cell he focused on the three D’s of Apparition.

Destination: Bill and Fleur’s home of Shell Cottage outside of Tinworth. He clearly pictured the beach home he’d been to once. The dunes. The blue door. The sea weathered wood panels. The smells and sounds. He could see it.

Determination: He had to get there. He would. It was the only way to get to Harry and Hermione. He would do it.

Deliberation: He centered his mind, and slowed his thoughts. He carefully considered it, steadied his nerves, and stood with certainly.

An exhaled breath. The wood of his wand pressing into his fist. The turn. And with a small ‘pop!’ he was gone.

The river’s rippling waters were replaced by ocean’s waves turning over.

He opened his eyes, and sure as he stood, there was Shell cottage. He was one step closer to finding Harry and Hermione, and nothing would stop him until he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Input always valued, good or bad.


End file.
